


Once More Without Feeling

by Singerdiva01



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singerdiva01/pseuds/Singerdiva01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four days before Laura Roslin gets the presidency back, she summons Tom Zarek to Colonial One. Her body is covered in bruises, her mood is dark, and she needs him to help her feel alive one more time before she gives herself over to her office once again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More Without Feeling

I almost refuse but a summons from Laura Roslin to Colonial One, even though she’s technically a civilian and I’m technically the president, isn’t one that can be ignored. 

I know she isn’t calling to ask for her office back; Laura Roslin won’t ask, she’ll demand and she’ll do it when the press corps are awake to report that I came when called and left contrite. 

Tonight’s call won’t even be logged and she’s made sure there’s no one, not a single errant soul, around to see the fleet’s most notorious terrorist and second worst vice president slipping into her private quarters in the dead of night. 

I don’t even bother to hope this will be a passionate encounter with the playful, daring woman I had the pleasure of seeing a handful of times on New Caprica. That woman all but disappeared the moment the first Cylon Raider swooped down over the settlement and whatever spark that might have remained was, if her experience was anything like mine, extinguished in a toaster prison cell.

Tonight will be about Laura Roslin exercising whatever humanity she has left, in the only way she knows how, before she locks it away wherever she keeps her other demons. 

I wonder absently as I walk into her quarters why she isn’t spending her last night alive with Bill Adama. When she silently takes off her blouse and lets her skirt slip to the floor, I don’t wonder anymore. That stoic old war horse would fall to pieces over the mottled bruises that cover her back and stomach, far more than our tumble down the hill could have caused. He’d kiss each one and cry over her bravery and she’d be tempted to feel like she’s earned the right to fall apart. 

She’s called me because she wants me to see, wants me not to react, but more because she wants to be frakked hard and she wants it to hurt. 

I’ve never had trouble getting hard for her but tonight she has to work to get me ready. She’s annoyed, I can tell, and she goes about it like my cock is an appliance that has to warm up before being used. There’s a flicker of something, I’d like to think respect, when she finally gets around to taking off my shirt and sees my own battle wounds. 

She’ll pretend, tomorrow, that tonight never happened but I decide to let myself hope that she’ll remember this, at least, when she’s deciding how I’m going to spend the rest of my days. 

She’s barely wet but she’s insistent and I know her hiss of pain when I enter her is probably the closest thing to an audible admission of pleasure I’ll get tonight. 

I’m afraid for a moment that she’s not even going to try to come, that her vision of penance is of me dry frakking her against the wall until she bleeds, but thankfully she eventually puts her fingers on her clit and starts pushing back against my thrusts. 

When she comes she does so silently, the only indication of her orgasm the uncontrollable clenching of her muscles around me. I feel myself start to go soft but the only thing I can imagine that would be worse than this would be for her to get me hard again and demand a second go. I close my eyes, imagine her face lit up in ecstasy against the cool New Caprica ground, and only then do I find my own release. 

She doesn’t make small talk, never has and certainly won’t tonight, so I wordlessly gather up my clothes and make my way to the head. When I emerge she’s standing at the viewport, still naked, the purple of her bruises on her pale skin highlighted ghoulishly by the starlight. 

I take my leave before she dresses again. I can’t bear to see her replace her armor over her battered body and return to her desk with my cum still drying between her thighs.

Her bruises will fade and so will mine but what happened here tonight will take a whole lot longer to disappear from my memory. I’ll remember for the rest of my life that I was the last person to see Laura Roslin, the woman, alive and I was the one she chose to help her die.


End file.
